The morning the world collapsed
by BMRH
Summary: When the world collapsed around them, many people wished they could get just one moment of their lives back. This is the story of one of them. Set during "The Reichenbach Fall", following Lestrade when he gets the news about Sherlock's suicide and how he reacts to it.


**A/N**

I have written this entire fic on my mobile phone over a couple of months now and now finally it's done! It's supposed to be a one shot but it became very long so I'm splitting it into two parts. I hope Lestrade isn't too OOC. He's in shock after all. I have taken liberties with that Lestrade has children and his and Sherlock's previous history before John. No Johnlock slash whatsoever but can be shipped as Mollstrade though friendship is my intention. Rated T- for mention of suicide and some swearing. No spoilers except the obvious one of Sherlock "possibly" meeting his maker at the end of "The Reichenbach Fall"

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**_THE MORNING THE WORLD COLLAPSED_**

**Part 1...**

Gregory Lestrade buried his face in his hands. It had been a long night, no doubt but it wasn't the lack of sleep that was nudging him. He knew he was screwed. Completely and utterly screwed. Just as sure as he was on his children's names, he was on the fact that he was going to get fired within the next 24 hours. Six years of letting a private detective get very unlimited access to 36 of Scotland Yard's most baffling cases could have gotten anyone fired but when it also turned out that this particularly private detective actually had committed most of the crimes just so he could impress them all by solving them...

No, Greg didn't believe it. He was very sure that Sherlock Holmes was not a fraud. Of course he hadn't told anyone in his team about this theory but his deliberately slow and unmotivated attempt at finding the detective and his faithful blogger after last night's arrest could very possibly have given him away.

Why was he sure? He had watched Sherlock do the most amazing observations, one of many that Greg's own wife was cheating on him when the detective never even had met the woman. But yes, Sherlock Holmes is an arrogant sod. A real pain in the ass! Sometimes even a lying bastard... So how could he be so sure that Sherlock hadn't done those things? Did he have any evidence for this statement? After all, if someone can get away with serial murder, Sherlock Holmes certainly is the man. To fool the Scotland Yard to that degree, it would take his mind, his genius to accomplish it. Yes, it would take a genius to fake all of that wouldn't it? And if Sherlock had faked it all, wouldn't that still make him a genius? A very different kind, yes, but a genius nonetheless. Would that still make him a fraud?

"Bloody hell." The DI, if not for many more hours, swore. He didn't know in or out anymore. Were his theories just his mind's naive attempt to try to hold on to what he wanted to be the truth? Had reality finally had caught up with him? Still he couldn't imagine Sherlock paying someone to strap a house-blowing amount of Semtex onto John just to...

Lestrade sighed. After all, John Watson was the closest to proof for his statement that he had. Sherlock claimed he was a high functioning sociopath but you didn't need to have his intellect to see that he cared deeply about Dr Watson. It had been evident from the first time he had seen them together. Lestrade had never seen Sherlock act like he wasn't the king of the world in any sense but in the company of John, he was at least closer to human ruler than an alien. The way the two had been walking away from the taxi driver scene more than a year ago and genuinely laughing... Greg had never, during those five years he had known Sherlock before the man had met Watson, seen him laugh or at least not in a way that was not meant to be arrogant and mockingly sarcastic.

Also, whatever Sherlock thought, he wasn't stupid. He knew that John had shot that cabbie in the moment of action when he thought Sherlock was going to become that serial killer's next victim. But Sherlock said nothing, even interrupted his description of the shooter when he realised who the shooter was. So Lestrade "forgot" to mention it in his report because for the first time he had seen Sherlock Holmes somehow care about another human being and it actually made him happy. He had his honest hopes that John Watson could make Sherlock Holmes to more than the great man he already was. A good man. Lestrade smiled. Sherlock would never have endangered John's life with wrapping him in explosives. That he knew. And John Watson was an honest man. If he believed in Sherlock's innocence there was so reason to doubt. No, Sherlock couldn't have done all those things. He was sure of it, he was...

The DI's thoughts were interrupted as Sally Donovan swung the door to his private office open.

"Sir, we just got a call from Barts. Some guy has apparently thrown himself of the hospital roof. Anderson is on his way there to clean up the mess..."

"Great, then why are you telling me this if Anderson's already on it?" Lestrade interrupted. "I'm in no mood or in a position right now to deal with some random suicide."

Oh hell, he was beginning to sound like Holmes himself, he thought. That had come out more irritated than he intended to. The DI sighed deeply.

"Look, Sally, I'm..." he began his apology but right then Donovan got another call on her phone.

"Just a moment, sir. Yeah?" she answered but suddenly she went very stiff and her eyes went wide of the words the voice in the other end told her. "What the... Are you serious?".

"What is it?" Lestrade asked. Something about his sergeant's surprised reaction made him feel uneasy. Something was not quite alright.

"Hold on," she told the person calling her. "Bloody..."

"What the hell is going on, Sally?" the DI expelled frustrated and angry.

"It's the freak!"

Lestrade had been ready to shout another round of undeserved insults at Donovan but instead he instantly froze. There was only one person that his sergeant never referred to anything else than 'freak'.

"Wait, what're you babbling about?!"

"Anderson says it's the freak that has thrown himself of Barts! Head smashed in! Lots of blood on the scene! Died instant..."

Lestrade rose from his seat violently, almost knocking his chair over.

"Give me the damn phone, now!" he interrupted Sally. She was clever enough to do what she was told immediately.

"Anderson! If this is some kind of joke it's the sickest thing even you have come up with nor in any way funny, you..."

"It's not a joke, Sir! I saw the photos of the scene! It was Holmes I can assure you! Sir? Are you there?"

The DI wasn't. He was already out of his office, had grabbed his jacket and on his way down to the garage. End destination: St Bartholomew's hospital.

"That bastard!" he suddenly heard Donovan spit behind him while she followed him down the Yard's office floor. "So he had done it all and he couldn't live with it, could he? That bloody coward! Took the _simple_ way out apparently! So much for responsibility, what a fre..."

Lestrade stopped.

"Sally Donovan... If you say that '**_word_**' one more time... I swear to God that I'll make sure that you never get another job within the force!"

Greg felt his whole body shake with anger. He barely snapped at Donovan but this morning he blamed her, for quite a **_lot_** actually. Sally went quiet and stopped behind him. She may not have agreed with a lot of his decisions but she still respected him.

Neither did know what to say next. The silence annoyed Lestrade. Right now it was just a waste of time and he was on his move again within seconds.

"Sir, where are you going?" Donovan finally called.

Stupid question, Lestrade thought. You know where I'm going.

"Please don't follow me and also, don't tell boss about this. You're rather good at that, aren't you? Not that it will matter anyway now."

"Sir..." Sally began. "I'm sorry for the situation this has put you in but I don't regret what I did."

"Yeah, I wish I could say the same..."

"Sir!" Donovan called after him as the DI ran to the elevators.

**Part 2...**

Greg was in the garage, starting a police car and on his way to St Bartholomew's hospital within seconds. He drove fast, or the fastest he could manage through the busy London morning traffic. All interruptions irritated him to no end, making him take out the frustration on the horn before a brilliant idea popped into his mind. In the end, it's amazing the effect a pair of police sirens has on most traffic jams. It truly was a blessing for both him and the other vehicles on the road that they made way for him because he wasn't exactly the best driver in the city right now. Concentrating on the traffic was hard when his mind were a complete chaos of thoughts.

He couldn't possibly take Anderson's words seriously. No, it was just impossible! Sherlock would never kill himself. He loved himself, his mind, way too much! This must be a really fucked up joke, right? At least it couldn't be real. Could it be a dream? His tired mind playing him a cruel trick? Maybe this really was a dream?

A loud horn (or more **_a couple_** of loud horns) snapped him back into reality. He quickly pulled the car back into the right driving field.

"Shit!"

Greg picked up his phone, dialled John Watson's number for the third time and pressed 'call'. One ring, two rings, three rings, eleven rings passed but no one picked up in the other end and the call went to voice mail just like the times before. He ended it and immediately tried a fourth time.

"Come on, John! Pick up the bloody phone!"

John Watson **_always_** answered his phone. He had learned to always be contactable if Sherlock needed him or the rest of the world needed him to control Sherlock. But also the fourth call went unanswered. Lestrade found it more and more difficult to stay focused on the driving.

Fifteen minutes after he had left the office, Greg was parking the car outside the emergency entrance of St Barts. He was desperate for answers and if he wanted any, he knew he had to find John. The doctor would certainly be in here **_if_** something actually had happened. And John still hadn't called him back.

Lestrade realised that there was a high risk that he would meet Anderson in here too and that was certainly something he wanted to do everything in his power to avoid. Making that promise to himself, he entered the hospital.

Lestrade ran through the corridors, throwing the doors aside loudly in his rush. It all felt very surreal as the doors and walls flashed his vision. Eventually he saw the doors leading to the corridor which led to the morgue. Damn, he wanted so badly to find Sherlock in there cutting off fingers of a body, then putting them on fire, making the fire alarm go off so they had to evacuate the whole building. Greg really tried to push away that feeling in his gut telling him that something was really wrong. This dream really began to feel a bit too real for his liking.

He approached the doors. Just as he was about to push them open, he instead stopped with his hand on the handle. The detective inspector sighed deep, let his head fall and closed his eyes. _Please let him be in there. My God, please let him be alive and well. I'm begging you, God, please!_

That's when he heard the loud sobs from the corridor on the other side of the door.

Instead of opening it, he peeked through the square window in the door. In the corridor on the other side he saw two persons, one of them unmistakably the man he had been trying to reach ever since Donovan's phone call. John Watson was hugging an old woman. Lestrade also recognised her immediately. Mrs Hudson, the landlady of 221 Baker Street, who obviously had made those painful cries. Even with her back against Lestrade, it was hard not to notice her heartbreaking lament. She cried hysterically and grabbed John's jacket with her weak hands. She reminded the DI of a devastated older mother who just had gotten the news that she had lost her child. Maybe a son...

Lestrade's chest suddenly felt very tight. _I must be dreaming. Tell me I am dreaming!_. He pinched himself and the pain radiated out in his arm. No, he was very much awake. In the end this was not a dream...

No... This couldn't be... The old lady maybe had lost a relative of hers and Watson was here to comfort her? It couldn't be possible that it had something to do with Sherlock. It wasn't possible...

In that moment, Watson raised his head from the crying woman's shoulder. Greg realized too late that the doctor noticed him in the window. In lack of knowing what to do, the DI lifted his hand to his ear in a gesture to show the good doctor that he had tried to call him. At least he should know that much.

But John Watson just stared back at him. Starred but there was absolutely nothing in his gaze. Nothing. No anger, no hatred, no disgust. Nothing. Just emptiness and, God, that was so much worse than all those other things together. Those eyes the army doctor wore were the eyes of a dead man. Someone who has gotten a part of his soul ripped out of his body. Hollowness, the most significant sign of deepest grief. And John just starred before he turned his gaze away again into the neck of the landlady. And it was then Lestrade knew... _Sherlock Holmes is no more..._

His legs couldn't hold him anymore and he fell down on his knees with his forehead resting against the wall. His hands curled into fists and he pounded the wright of them into the wall. The bang echoed in the small corridor before another bang from the same fist took its place. Damn it...

"Damn it!" Greg yelled through gritted teeth until his voice instead broke into a sob. He slumped down on the floor with his back against the wall and buried his face in his hands. And then the middle aged detective inspector, who had seen so much death in his career, just cried quietly in his palms. His face twisted to a mask of deepest pain and sorrow. The feeling that something was very wrong had exploded into something completely different. Realization, and it had hit him hard without mercy. Stabbed him right in the heart and, oh God, it hurt so much!

Anderson had not told him a lie. Sherlock Holmes was gone. He had really thrown himself from the roof of this very hospital. Taken his own life this very morning. He wasn't breathing anymore, thinking anymore. Never again would his mind solve a mystery. Never again would his fingers touch his violin. Never again would he show off one of his brilliant deductions. And the DI realised that the last words he had spoken to the young man he had known for six years were a list of arrest orders while his officers was putting handcuffs on him.

"Oh God!" the man cried. The fact that he had called John to warn them about the upcoming arrest wasn't making him feel any better at all. He had still arrested him, both of them in fact, the men who somehow had become his friends. What if it was his fault that Sherlock had found no other way out than to end his life this way? Oh God, he wished he had just been a stronger man and stood up against the authority. If he just had owned courage John Watson had, the conviction to protect his friend against the rest of the world when no one else did.

His subconscious mind overwhelmed him with a cruel slideshow of pictures and memories. First a picture of a very young man. Just a kid really, 23 years of age. Just out of Uni, a very thin junkie who had paced around the DI's every crime scene six years ago. Penetrating gaze. Always slightly dilated pupils. Lestrade remembered the first time he had let this young man in at a crime scene. Lestrade never really regretted that decision, not even now, whatever other people said.

Another memory. The overdose. Greg never regretted trusting his gut feeling that evening telling him that something was very wrong when the junkie kid didn't show up at the scene of a brutal triple murder. The picture of finding the boy on the floor, pale as a sheet with open vacant eyes, would never stop haunting him.

Another picture of a more mature, healthier man walking away with a shorter man by his side. The DI knew he would never regret, ignoring the doctor's obvious involvement in the murder of the actual murderer. He had seen a very different side of his consulting detective that night. How far he had come from the time when he had been that junkie kid.

The memories pasted his vision faster and faster. The texts, the phone calls, all the cases, all the crime scenes, the Christmas party, the arrest last night, Donovan's words twenty minutes ago... Until it all stopped on one last picture, added just moments ago: _John Watson's eyes..._

He thought of John and the tears broke lose again. God, he felt so naive. John had lost so much more than just a friend. A colleague, a flatmate, his **_best_** friend, and telling from his eyes, also the part of his soul that somehow was repaired the day he met the consulting detective. Now it was once again brutally ripped off, leaving a wound so big that it would take ages to heal it. And even if it somewhat healed in time, the scar would never fade away and the pain when touching it would never stop hurting. Maybe his own body just had received such a scar?

"Inspector?" he suddenly heard a sweet voice ask. He looked up and saw a young woman dressed in a lab coat standing in front of him. He had seen her many times before. At the morgue on most occasions and at the Christmas party at 221B where she certainly had made quite an impression on him. Molly Hooper. She looked down at him with worried eyes.

"Miss Hooper... I'm just... I..." Greg stammered but he couldn't get the words out of him. He didn't really know what he would say in the first place. Another sob threatened to escape him. He tried to hold it in for dear life and turned away from her gaze. He didn't want her to see him like this. He was a grown man, a detective inspector for God's sake!

"Gregory, are you okay?"

Lestrade head snapped up. Molly sat on her knees in front of him now and had taken his hands in her own. And against his better judgement, he tried to answer her and the emotions overwhelmed him again. He let his head drop backwards to stop the tears who so stubbornly wanted to escape. They did anyway. Greg then felt Molly switching her position and settling down close beside him, still holding his hands and tilted her head to his shoulder. In any other situation, her touch would have felt almost romantic but right now it was only comforting, especially from this woman who also knew ('had known...' Greg sadly corrected himself) the consulting detective.

"I don't want to believe it. Any of it." Lestrade muttered after a minute of silence.

Molly squeezed his hand a little tighter. "I know... Who would?"

"Apparently a lot of people... Have you met..." He gestured to the other corridor from were sobs still echoed. "Have you talked to John?"

Lestrade felt her tense slightly before she answered. "No. Maybe I should but... I'm kind of scared. I don't know what to say really."

"You're not alone on that part."

Another silence followed after that. Greg couldn't tell how long they sat there on the floor with their own thoughts. He noticed however that during the whole time Molly never shed a single tear. It surprised him. She seemed to be the dramatic kind of woman who showed her emotions rather than keeping them locked up inside. Also it wasn't a well-kept secret that Molly had had some kind of feelings for Sherlock Holmes. It was pretty obvious really the way she mostly acted around him. But she didn't cry. She just looked sad. The DI admired her strength in this difficult situation, but maybe it wasn't strength? Maybe she was in shock? He couldn't really tell. He suspected he was in shock himself. It didn't really matter which because as his hand curled around Molly's a bit tighter he knew he was very sure of at least one thing. He was glad that she was here with him and that he was not standing alone in the ruins the morning the world collapsed.

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**A/N**

**There, should I write an epilogue? Thank you for reading! Please comment and tell me what you think? :D**


End file.
